


Stained

by Katzedecimal



Series: Rat, Wedding, Bow [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Homecoming, M/M, Pets, Post-Reichenbach, getting this out of my head before Moffat wipes it out, playing fast and loose with the ACD canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty's last gunman has a personal vendetta against Dr. John Watson, prompting Sherlock to come home, the better to protect his partner.  But he's been hunting this Colonel Moran for a couple of years without success; how will they find a man who hunts like a ninja, unseen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My Muse's take on the keywords "Rat, Wedding, Bow." Set in the same universe as _Apres La Mort_ and following that series. Plenty of "playing fast and loose with the ACD canon" to come.

It was a dark and stormy night. John smiled in the darkness, watching the firelight flicker over his best friend's face. It still felt surreal -- so many nights, he had thought he saw the familiar silhouette, only to turn to see an empty chair. Sherlock's violin lay across his lap, his fingers idly plucking the strings as he gazed into the fire, the only light in the room. 

John had tried to keep the homecoming quiet - frankly, he feared that Sherlock's face would be slapped and punched so many times he'd develop a concussion, not something John wanted to deal with. Mike and Molly had had other ideas, unfortunately. John had knuckled under and supplied the soundtrack for the party, although he'd gotten a black look from his flatmate for leading off with Oingo Boingo's "Dead Man's Party." The rest was the playlist from his media player - the long, long compilation of songs he and Sherlock had used to communicate with each other during Sherlock's absence. Admittedly, it was fun watching people try to guess who had supplied which song, but it was also a bit wearing their hearts on their sleeves. Some of those songs, they had chosen to communicate some very personal things to each other. And some were too meaningful to share; after a quick consultation with Sherlock, John had pulled those from the public playlist (although he kept them on his own media player.)

They'd had a fortnight to settle back in together. Old routines were quickly re-established, along with new routines. They still exchanged a song on their media players, every day, though the nature had changed somewhat. Sometimes it was something amusing or something different that one had thought the other might find interesting, but most of the time they were coded declarations of love. A new fridge had been purchased and boldly marked "Food Only", with a matching sign on the old fridge reading "Experiments Only." Mary had left her kanban board behind since John had found it useful and had seen its potential immediately. John had explained how he and Mary had used it, then seized the opportunity to declare a new rule: No complaining about being bored until three chores have been done and yes I will be checking. Sherlock had snorted and made a few noises but hadn't objected outright. A few days later, John had noticed notes related to the Adair case going up onto the board, and had smiled.

Then Lestrade had called them down to NSY, claiming to have something for them to see. It had taken a fair bit of cajoling to convince either of them to go, since John still held a grudge. They strode into the office then stopped dead, stunned by the enormous banner strung across the ceiling reading "Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock eyed it suspiciously, clearly expecting it to change to "Welcome back, Freak" any second now. His darting gaze took in a couple of conspicuous absences then glanced at John, who had noticed them as well. He was introduced to some new members on Lestrade's team and wondered if they were, in fact, replacements. A wide-eyed woman dragged over by Lestrade and introduced as "TDC Driscoe, she's very promising" was summarily instructed, "Whenever this man is on a case, learn from him. Pay attention to what he does, listen to what he says, not how he says it, and whatever you do, don't kick him." Sherlock glanced at her, uncertain what to say after being handed Lestrade's favorite greenhorn. 

"But that's not why I called you here today," Lestrade said finally. John and Sherlock glanced at each other with a clear "It isn't?" hanging between them. "Y'see, Sherlock, you've amassed an enormous amount of forensic research and you've nowhere to store it..."

"I have backups," Sherlock interjected. 

"So John tells me. Seventeen external drives, one of them holding up the dresser leg." A ripple of laughter went around the room. "But external drives can be stolen or damaged and it would be a shame for any of that data to be lost. Two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash, that kind of research is invaluable to the forensic inspector..." Sherlock snorted and Lestrade smiled. "This week, the Met will be unveiling its new crime database and we'd like you to have the first crack at it. If you have any suggestions for improving it, they'd be welcome. They had a lottery for the name and we lobbied hard and got our name chosen. It'll be called the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System," he finished proudly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why such a ridiculously long, unweildy..." he trailed off as the letters rearranged themselves in his mind's eye and showed him an acronym. "...oh." Then he looked at John giggling and the excited, hopeful grins around him. "....Thank you. Yes, I...shall consider your offer." The room had burst into applause, then there was cake and tea until John had taken Sherlock home, still in a daze. 

Now he sat in the darkened sitting room, staring at the firelight and plucking his violin while John watched him adoringly. "What are you thinking about?" John asked him softly, "Still thinking about the Adair case? Or Colonel Moran? Lestrade's surprise party?"

"Rats."

John blinked and sat up a little, "What?"

"Rats," Sherlock said quietly, "What do you think about fostering some rats?"

"... Where's this coming from?"

"You said I should get a pet. The shelter Molly adopted from had some rats surrendered to them and they don't know what to do with them."

"And.... you do?"

"While I was in America, one of the agents I stayed with ran a rescue with her wife. I got pressed into emergency service as a rat cuddler." John blinked at the mental image that presented and started to grin. "Of course I learned to take care of them. It would only be temporary if we're fostering."

"Sorry, I'm still stuck on you as an emergency rat cuddler. What does emergency rat cuddling entail?"

"Cuddling rats, obviously. Was that a pun?"

"Not intentionally." John thought about the idea. With Sherlock's intense focus, in all likelihood it would be he who actually took care of the creatures, but as long as Sherlock told him how, he should be able to manage. "How many rats are we talking about?"

"Three. Females, I'm told."

"Oh, alright then. That doesn't seem so bad." John thought again and nodded, "Alright. Fine. We can foster some rats." Sherlock glanced at him with that soft smile of his and John felt warmth spread through him, countering the chill in the flat. "Come on, then," he said softly, taking Sherlock's hand, "Let's go to bed."


	2. Hooded Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's morning routine: Take shower, make breakfast, eat breakfast, discuss experiment du jour with flatmate, go to work, check media player, get kidnapped in black car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm on holidays right now, with sporadic access, hence updates are very slow to come.)

It was a brisk and partly-cloudy morning. John yawned, unsurprised to find the bed empty of Sherlock. He had a quick shower, then wandered out to the kitchen in search of tea. Tea was easily found, as was his partner, inspecting the pork chops he'd had steeping in water for the past week. John opened the new fridge and withdrew the milk and eggs, remembering the first time he'd opened the fridge after Sherlock's return, to find a pair of big blue eyes looking back at him. Not in a head of course, just the eyes, with the shreds of muscle, tendon and optic nerve all neatly trimmed (Molly was nothing if not conscientious.) He'd broken into giggles, unable to believe he'd actually _missed_ that. Then he'd placed an order for the new fridge, with strict instructions as to appropriate use, and threats to lock his flatmate in a small room with Anderson if non-compliant. 

He set a skillet on the hob and turned to place a mug of tea next to Sherlock, who was peering at a sliver of pork through the microscope. "I'm the only person in the world who thinks this is normal," he declared. 

"What is?" Sherlock mumbled, not looking away from the microscope. 

"Finding one's flatmate experimenting with rotten pork chops at seven in the morning while I'm cooking breakfast."

"What's not normal about it?"

"Nothing -- if your name is Sherlock Holmes or John Watson."

"Who else matters?"

"Absolutely nobody."

"Then I don't see the point to any of this conversation." John burst into giggles and cracked some eggs into the pan. "I've told you before, John, pig flesh is considered to be the closest human analogue. I'm looking to see if that's true or not."

"So the other chop is..."

"A section of human thigh, yes. I'm comparing the rates of decomposition in sea water and Thames water."

John got the giggles again and started scrambling the eggs. "Does that mean that instead of stopping off at Barts, we'll be stopping off at Tesco?"

Sherlock paused just a fraction too long. "Perhaps."

"Molly'll be disappointed."

Again, just a fraction too long. "Possibly."

John looked at him for a moment, then patted him on the shoulder and kissed his cheek. Sherlock didn't glance at him or move, save to tip his cheek fractionally in the direction of the kiss. John set a small plate of egg next to him and took his own plate and tea to the other side of the table. He watched Sherlock for a minute, noting that the barest hint of a smile now indented the corners of his mouth. John himself tried to avoid Barts whenever possible, so he could hardly blame Sherlock if he felt similarly. Sherlock had come home with his own set of trauma symptoms, nightmares and all. _What a pair we are,_ John thought, watching his friend. "I've a shift this morning," he announced. Sherlock made a soft noise of acknowledgement. "Are we going to see about your houseguests today?" Another soft noise and a faint nod. "Good. Anything we'll need?"

"Coroplast." Now it was John's turn to make a soft noise, this one of inquiry. "We'll need coroplast to build a playpen for them. They need at least an hour of time outside their cage every day."

"So, an hour of time where Sherlock isn't stuck in his head or in experiments but is playing with little animals instead?"

Sherlock glanced up with a Look. "Yes."

"Sounds marvellous."

"Although I shall be conducting experiments with them. They're quite trainable, they're used in behavioural analysis studies all the time. It's hypothesised that rats are capable of metacognition - that means they can think about thinking, John. I plan to test for that."

John grinned widely, abruptly enlightened as to Sherlock's sudden interest. "Well, as long as we don't end up with dissected rats, I'm all for it."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. They're pets."

"Right," John finished his breakfast and shoved his chair back, "Eat up, then. You'll need your strength if you're going to be called out on an emergency rat cuddle. I'm off."

He was chuckling all the way to the surgery. Fostering rats! A bizarre notion at first, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought it would be good for Sherlock. Just the mental images of Sherlock cuddling rats, playing with them, teaching them tricks... Could they do tricks? He sent off a text to ask and received a volley of explanations and Youtube links, making him laugh again, keeping him chuckling through the morning. He checked his media player and found Stevie Nicks' _Blue Denim_ and chuckled when he saw that it had just been uploaded. But when he stepped out of the surgery to go to lunch, he wasn't laughing anymore.

A long black car was waiting for him, flanked by two men in black suits. John rolled his eyes with a sigh, "Oh bloody hell... What does he want **this** time?" No answer, of course. Just the door swung open for him in a silent command. He heaved another sigh and got into the car.


	3. The Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a case while settling in with his new flatmates. John tries not to bash his head against the wall. Mycroft glares at someone else for a change.
> 
> Shameless ratification of ACD.

Buckingham Palace, Downing Street, the Tower of London - the black cars had taken John to an awful lot of places. Somehow he wasn't expecting home to be one of them. His escorts marched him up the stairs and threw open the door to the flat. John scowled at him as he went through, then stopped when he saw the tableau. 

Sherlock, seated in his chair, stone faced, blank of expression - check. 

Mycroft, standing by the fireplace, looking vaguely displeased - check.

Men In Black, standing at various points around the flat, barely concealing expressions of distaste - check. 

Distinguished Visitor, smelling of posh cologne and pompous officialdom, seated in John's chair - check. 

....Large trolley cage standing open next to the couch, surrounded by bits of fabric and little objects, partially filled with bedding, big sheets of coroplast, small covered carry case beside it - that's new. "Evening, Mycroft," John said, stepping between them all to plonk down onto the couch, "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Mycroft summoned his Official Smile, "Doctor Watson. Permit me to introduce the Right Honourable Trelawney Hope, Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs. Mr. Hope, my brother's companion, Dr. John Watson."

"A distinguished veteran, I'm told," the Secretary said. John endured the official handshake with a mumbled 'thank you', before the Secretary turned his attention back to Sherlock, "I discovered the loss at eight o'clock this morning, Mr. Holmes. I informed your brother immediately and it was his suggestion to come to you."

Sherlock flicked his eyes briefly at Mycroft. "Have you informed the police?"

"No, nor is it possible to do so," the Foreign Secretary said smoothly, "To inform the police would be to inform the public, something we wish particularly to avoid."

"Why is that?"

"Mr. Holmes, the document in question is of such... delicacy that its publication would almost certainly lead to... complications, shall we say." Sherlock twitched an eyebrow but that was all. "It would not be exaggerating to say that protests or even conflicts might hang upon the issue. Unless it can be recovered with the utmost confidence, it might as well not be recovered at all."

"I see," Sherlock said, "And exactly how did the document disappear?"

"The letter was received six days ago. It was of such sensitivity that I didn't dare to trust it in the offices, but took it home and locked it in a strongbox. It was there last night, I'm certain of that. I checked on the box while my wife was dressing for dinner. Both my wife and I are quite light sleepers, so I am certain no one entered our room last night. But this morning, the document was gone."

"At what time did you take supper?"

"Our reservation was for seven thirty; we left at seven o'clock."

"At what time did you return?"

"Afterwards we attended a theatre, so we did not return home until eleven thirty."

"So, the strongbox was unguarded for four hours."

"No one is permitted to enter our room," the Secretary said sternly, "Save for my house keeper in the morning, and my valet and my wife's maid for the rest of the day." Behind him, Mycroft licked his lips and inhaled, his way of indicating mild exasperation with the anticipation of much more to come. "Besides, none of them could have known that there was anything more valuable than ordinary legal papers in that strongbox. That's why I put it in the strongbox instead of my safe." John fought the urge to facepalm but noticed how Mycroft's eyes flicked briefly towards the ceiling. John glanced at Sherlock, wondering how his usually-ascerbic friend was managing to keep from snarking, and stared - Sherlock's shirt was staring back. 

"Did anyone else know about the letter?" Sherlock asked as though there wasn't a rat peering out of his collar. 

"No one in the house. Er, you have...."

"A hazard of dropping in on someone unannounced," Sherlock said evenly, one hand rising to stroke the creature as it scrambled out onto his shoulder and second set of whiskers materalised under his chin, "Your wife?"

"No. I had said nothing to my wife until I noticed the letter had gone missing this morning."

"Could she have guessed?" Now both of Sherlock's shoulders were adorned and the rats were investigating his hair.

"No, she could not, nor could anyone have guessed."

"Who is there in England who did know of the letter's existance?" Sherlock's voice was patient. John glanced at him, then watched as one of the rats descended to the arm of the chair, sighted on him, then leaped the distance to the couch with surprising spring for such a long creature with such short legs. John could almost picture the "boing!" caption. 

"Each member of the Cabinet was informed of it yesterday." John fought the urge to facepalm again and distracted himself with the rat that was investigating him, while the Foreign Secretary continued, "But the pledge of secrecy that attends every Cabinet meeting was increased by solemn warning." John bit his lip and beeped the twitchy pink nosie. "Besides the members of the Cabinet, there are two, possibly three, departmental officials who know about the letter. No one else in England, Mr. Holmes, I assure you."

"What about abroad?" John asked, more to keep from bursting into a rant than to solicit information. He managed not to flinch as the rat scaled his arm. 

"I believe that no one abroad has seen it save the person who wrote it," the Secretary said, "I'm convinced that the... usual official channels have not been employed."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing and also couldn't believe that Sherlock had managed not to speak what he was almost certainly thinking. He had to be thinking it because John was thinking it and heck, John was experienced enough now in reading Holmes microexpressions to know that even Mycroft was thinking it. But his friend merely stroked his rat and said, "What **exactly** is this document and why should its disappearance have such monumentous consequences?"

The Secretary glanced up at Mycroft before replying, "It's in a long thin envelope, pale blue, addressed in large, bold handwriting..."

"Yes yes, I'm sure it's lovely stationary, that doesn't answer my question: What **is** it? A political manifesto? The ravings of an extremist or a lunatic? A cartoon? **What _is_ it**?"

"That is a state secret of the utmost importance. I cannot tell you, nor do I see it as necessary," the Secretary responded stiffly. 

"My partner is merely seeking information," John interjected smoothly. "Mr. Holmes operates by gathering data; the more data you can supply, the faster and more efficiently he can operate." 

"Well, Dr. Watson.. Mr. Holmes... If, by the aid of the powers which you are said to possess, you can find the envelope I described with its contents, then you will have earned any reward in my power to bestow."

_Uh oh,_ John thought. Sherlock stood up, with a smile not unlike Mycroft's. "I'm sure you're quite a busy man, Mr. Hope, and I know my brother is. After coming home, the demand for my services has grown more than ever and I have very little room left on my case wall. Since you won't provide me with the data I require, I can't help you in this matter and continuing this interview would be a waste of time."

The Foreign Secretary stared at him in offended fury. "I am not accustomed..." he spluttered and Mycroft glared. But for once, he wasn't glaring at Sherlock - he was glaring at Mr. Hope.

"Mr. Hope, if I might have a word," he said with deceptive mildness. Sherlock flicked his eyes towards John, then back at Mycroft as his brother led the dignitary outside. 

The words exchanged were much too quiet to hear, but when they returned, the Foreign Secretary looked whey-faced and certainly cowed. "It... seems I must accept your terms, Mr. Holmes," he said, "It is unreasonable of me to expect you to act without my entire confidence."

"Confidentiality is not at issue here," John leaned forward, "I assure you, we are _very_ good at keeping secrets."

The Foreign Secretary stared at him - no man with a rat grooming his hair should be able to look so deadly serious. "Very well then," he said at last, "The letter is from a certain foreign potentate who has been ruffled by some recent... developments of this country. It has been written hurriedly and on his own responsibility entirely. Inquiries have shown that his Ministers know nothing about it. At the same time it is couched in so unfortunate a manner, and... certain phrases in it are so... provocative, that its publication would undoubtedly lead to a most dangerous state of feeling. I do not hesitate to say that the publication of that letter would constitute an act of war."

"Have you informed the sender?"

"Yes, an encrypted email was sent immediately."

"Perhaps he wants the letter to be published."

"We have strong reason to believe that he already understands that he has acted in an indiscreet and hot-headed manner. It would be a greater blow to him and to his country than to us if this letter were to come out."

"If that's the case, then in whose interest is it that the letter should come out?" Sherlock said with deceptive mildness, "Why should anyone desire to steal it or to publish it?"

"There, Mr. Holmes, you take me into regions of high international politics. But if you consider the Middle Eastern situation you will have no difficulty in perceiving the motive. The whole of the Middle East is an armed camp. There is a double league which makes a fair balance of military power. If Britain were driven into war with one confederacy, it would assure the supremacy of the other confederacy, whether they joined in the war or not. Do you follow?"

"Obviously. So it's the interest of the enemies of this potentate to secure and publish this letter, so as to make a breach between his country and ours."

"Yes."

"And to whom would this document be sent if it fell into the hands of an enemy?"

"To any of the Middle Eastern embassies."

"You think that unless this document is recovered, there will be war?"

"I think it is very probable."

"Then prepare for war," Sherlock said bluntly. Abruptly he was on his feet and pacing, "It's highly unlikely that it was taken after eleven-thirty at night, since you and your wife were both in the room from that hour until the loss was found out. Therefore, it was taken yesterday evening between seven-thirty and eleven-thirty, probably near the earlier hour, since whoever took it evidently knew that it was there and would want to secure it as soon as possible. No one has any reason to retain it, so unless our thief was unable to find a working scanner, it has already been emailed to those who need it. On what floor is your room?"

"Uh... second? Why?" the Secretary said, mystified. 

Sherlock ignored that but continued to pace. "Relationships with the embassies are strained right now so I'll have to go through other channels..."

The Secretary rose, ready to take his leave, "Whatever you deem best, Mr. Holmes. Please keep us informed of your progress." 

John got up - careful of the rat that was investigating his jumper - and saw the visitors out. He exchanged a glance with Mycroft that communicated volumes, although about what, he wasn't quite sure. He watched from the window until they were gone, then turned and banged his head against the wall and shook with laughter.


	4. The Lodgers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk about the case they've just received. Mrs. Hudson meets her new tenants.

"Bloody hell," John said, turning to Sherlock, "Oh it's a locked-room mystery but the door's only been taken off the hinges." Sherlock's lips spread into a grin with a low chuckle. "Nobody knew about the letter! -- except for my wife, a few of her friends, the household staff, the entire bloody Cabinet, and a few blokes down at the pub. But nobody could possibly have taken a letter that was in my house, unattended, and not even in a bloody safe!"

Sherlock's chuckles had grown into actual laughter. "But it was in a strongbox!"

"In their bedroom, on the second floor," John agreed then waggled his finger, "Where noooooooobody is allowed to look! ...Except in the morning annnnnd during the rest of the day." He sat down on the floor next to the cage and looked at it, to finish the construction.

"Yes, obviously it was a member of the household," Sherlock said, joining him.

John nodded, "The wife."

Sherlock fitted a water bottle into its mount and looked at him, "How did you work that out so quickly?"

"I was watching his face. When you asked him if his wife knew about the letter, he looked a bit concerned. **He's** convinced she knows nothing but there's _something_ going on there, he looked rather worried." Sherlock looked impressed. "Why, what tipped it off for you?"

"Didn't take the strongbox," Sherlock replied promptly, "The strongbox would be easily missed but an ordinary thief would have taken it anyways so as to be in and out quickly. Then they could open it at their leisure. This thief couldn't take the risk of the strongbox being missed, but was still able to enter it quickly. Our Foreign Secretary didn't mention any damage to the strongbox or its locking mechanism, so the thief was able to enter it without damaging it so likely knew the combination."

"Which was probably '1234'; Mr. Hope seemed the type," John agreed, "My god, Sherlock, is that bloke really Mycroft's boss??"

Sherlock grinned, "In name, perhaps - it was rather obvious who's _really_ in charge."

"Oh god yes," John laughed, pausing to scritch a curious head, "I thought we were going to pick these up together?"

"Molly had other ideas," Sherlock shrugged, "She brought the cage in her car, I wasn't going to say no."

"And I thought you said they were girls?" John peered at the one that was trying to climb under his jumper.

"Can you believe they thought those were tumours?" 

John burst out laughing, "Are you serious? They thought **these** were _tumours?_ "

"The third one **was** female but suffering with mammary tumours. Sadly she was also showing symptoms of an advanced pituitary tumour so Molly took her to be euthanised."

"Aww, poor thing." John watched as Sherlock filled the pan with bedding, filled the food dish and water bottle, and hung up hammocks and toys. "Quite the little pad these blokes'll have. What are their names?"

"Steve and Anthony, apparently. You've got Anthony."

"Hello, Anthony," John greeted the little pink nose twitching at him out of the neck of his jumper, "They like shirts, do they?"

"That's emergency rat cuddling," Sherlock smiled, "You wear two shirts and tuck them between. They feel safe and warm and they come to trust your smell." He withdrew Steve from his shirt and put him into the cage; John did the same with Anthony. They closed the doors and sat back on their heels to watch the rats explore their new home. "Well," he said, raking his fingers through his dark curls, "There are three major players on the international spy scene who might know what's going on."

"Besides Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded, "Mycroft'll already be going through his channels. He brought the man here mainly because he _knew_ the situation was mind-buggeringly stupid and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his composure."

"Commiseration, then," John nodded, understanding, "'This is what I have to work with.'"

"Yes exactly. Sometimes the stupid has to be seen to be believed, although I have to work with Anderson, you'd think he'd know I understand, by now." 

John chuckled, "And I noticed you were being very, very good. Although to be quite honest, **I** was having to bite my tongue and I noticed Mycroft was making faces."

"That's why I kept the rats out, so he could have something to make faces about," Sherlock nodded, then shook his head, "It _must_ take extra education to be _that_ stupid. Honestly, John, I think that fellow beats out Anderson."

"I was ready to call for my kit, the stupid was bleeding out all over the floor." 

They laughed together, then Sherlock raked his hands through his hair again and got to work, "So, Oberstein, La Rothiere, and Eduardo Lucas... I'll have to track down each of them."

"Lucas? Is that Eduardo Lucas from Godolphin Street?"

Sherlock looked up, "You know him?"

"He was just murdered last night," John said and jerked his chin towards his phone, "It was breaking news this morning, came through on my RSS alert feed." Sherlock stared at him, looking absolutely dumbfounded. John watched as his friend leaped up for his laptop to find the news sites. "Seems a bit coincidental," he commented, "One of the blokes you need to talk to, murdered just when you need to talk to him about a matter he'd likely know about?"

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered as he read, "And purely by chance that he was murdered around the same time frame as the theft."

"Fancy that. The coincidences just pile up. Strange old world, isn't it," John flashed him a grin, "You're getting better at sarcasm, by the by."

"Mm."

"So I'll start digging up about the wife, shall I?"

"Mm. Start with Lucas, see if Lestrade can get you access to the case. Then look at the wife. I'll see what I can find out about Oberstein and La Rothiere." John nodded and picked up his phone to send a text to Lestrade, then fired up his laptop to start his searches. Then he started to giggle. Sherlock glanced up, "What?"

"You, facing the Foreign Secretary with a rat peeking out of your shirt," John giggled, "I wish I could have taken a picture. Mycroft's face was priceless."

"Yes, that was rather good," Sherlock smiled, "Well, they just barged in, unannounced."

John knew better, "Which means he tried to phone ahead but you ignored it because it was Mycroft."

"Unannounced, as I said. I decided to start habituating them while I assembled the cage."

"In a silk shirt."

"It's an old one," Sherlock shrugged, "Doesn't matter if it gets chewed or marked upon. They do mark; they leave a trail to mark where they've been and mark what's safe. Interestingly, their urine trails are phosphorescent and show up under black light."

John stared at him for a moment then shook his head, _Deletes basic astronomy but remembers disco rat urine. I will never understand what he considers to be important information._ "Here's a thing -- seems our Secretary has only been married a few years." He saw Sherlock's eyes flick up then flick back to his own laptop. A while later, John added, "Here's another thing -- I can't access anything about her. All information is locked."

Another quick glance, "Facebook page? Twitter? Google Plus?"

"Not that I can find," John reported, "I'm trying the Secretary himself, see if anything links up."

Sherlock sat back and tented his fingers, "Someone's got something to hide."

"Sure looks like it. I'm ordering Indian tonight." John sighed and stretched his arms, flexing his fingers, then rubbed his sore shoulder. 

Immediately, Sherlock shoved his laptop aside and hopped up onto the back of the couch, motioning for John to sit before him. John was used to his friend's unusual positioning for giving backrubs which, he had to admit, beat sitting on the floor. "You're worried," Sherlock commented as he began to knead. 

"About Colonel Moran? Yes," John admitted, "He's good. I've looked into his records and now that we've seen how he works, it's a little unsettling." Sherlock smiled mirthlessly - John had a gift for understatement when it came to his own situation. "It's not knowing where he is. The man's an excellent long-distance marksman, the perfect sniper. There's no way to detect him."

Sherlock was silent, working John's shoulder. "Mycroft's submitted the applications."

John nodded and giggled, "Still can't believe I'm doing this."

"If you don't want..."

"Oh is it your turn to be the idiot?" John said affectionately, "I didn't say I didn't want to. And yes, I think your idea with the rings is bloody brilliant so shut up about it."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to, it was the next stupid thing you were going to say."

Sherlock smiled. Then they both looked up when Mrs. Hudson pushed the door open, "Your curry's arrived so I brought it up for you." Her eyes fell on the cage, "Oh did you get your--*" And its occupants, "Oh, _Sherlock!_ What on earth have you brought into my house?!"

Sherlock looked baffled as John took the curry and scuttled into the kitchen out of the line of fire. "What? I asked you if I could foster them and you said yes!"

"You asked if you could foster some **pets** , Sherlock! I thought you meant puppies!"

"I never said they were puppies."

"You never said they were horrible rats, either!"

"They're not horrible, they're pets!"

"Actually, they're really quite sweet, Mrs. H," John called, "Very cuddly."

"You shouldn't have rats indoors, you could get sick off of them. Who knows what they're carrying, they could be carrying plague!"

Sherlock huffed, "That was black rats and it was their fleas, not the rats themselves. These are descendants of Norway brown rats, which the plague fleas won't go to. Pet rats are not plague vectors."

"Hanta virus, then."

"That's mice!"

John came out with the bowls of curry, "Really, Mrs. H, they're lovely although they might possibly lick you to death. Here, I'll show you." He opened the door and took out one of the rats, "This is Anthony. Anthony, say hello to Mrs. Hudson."

"What's wrong with his... _Oh good lord!_ "

"Yes, he's a boy," John giggled, "Can you believe the people at the shelter thought he was a girl?"

Mrs. Hudson stared at him for a few moments then looked down at the rat in her arms. She started stroking and scritching him automatically. After a few minutes, she frowned as it made a clicking noise, "Why is it doing that?"

"He's happy," Sherlock said, cuddling Steve, "Cats purr, rats grind their teeth. It's called bruxing." The rat in his arms was bruxing, too. Soon its eyes started to bug out of its head.

"Why is it doing that? Is it sick?" Mrs. Hudson asked nervously.

"He's just bruxing extra hard," Sherlock explained, "It moves the muscle underneath their eye sockets. It's called boggling and it means he's very happy."

"Awwwwwww," Mrs. Hudson cooed as Anthony started to boggle his eyes as well. "What have you got hung up in their cage?"

"Hammocks."

"But those are your good handkerchieves, dear!" 

Sherlock shrugged, "I've ordered some fleece hammocks but they haven't arrived yet."

"Mrs. Turner next door has some fleece left over from making her grandson's fleece jacket. I'll see if she'll let me have some for you. Awwwww, aren't you a little sweetie-pie! Are those kissies? Are you giving me kissies?" John giggled at just how quickly Mrs. Hudson went from horrified to endeared. She handed the rat back to John, who put him back into the cage. "I'll let you boys get back to your tea."

"Ta, Mrs. Hudson, you're a sweetheart." John closed the door, giggling, then his phone chimed and he went to read the text, "Lestrade's got back to me about the Lucas case. I told him you'd taken an interest when it came on the RSS breaking news feed. He says the door was ajar, the room was disturbed, furniture moved about, no valuables removed. The victim died instantly of a stab wound to the heart that appears to have been made by a curved blade. Anderson thinks maybe a kirpan and is spouting off about Sikhs, apparently. That's all he can tell us for now."

"Anderson's an idiot. Lucas collected knives - ornamental, ethnic, practical, all types really. Tell Lestrade to search the collection; in all likelihood, he'll find that one of them is missing."

John sent the text off and grinned, "Now eat up, your tea's getting cold."

"You know I don't eat when there's a case..."

"Yeah and I know you haven't got enough data to work with," John countered craftily, "So it isn't a case yet. Ha! - I love that look."

"What look?"

"The look of 'curses, you got one 'round me'," John chuckled and picked up his bowl, sliding onto the sofa next to his partner, "Now eat."


	5. Mink Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late-hour visitor thickens the plot further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing really fast and loose with the canons here, I know.

It was late and John had already changed into his pyjamas when the bell rang and Mrs. Hudson hollared, "Boys! You've got a visitor!" 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and exchanged a glance with his partner. "Ask Lady Helen Trelawney Hope to step up," he said. 

John shook his head and grinned, then went to make tea. When the door opened, he glanced up at the lady as she stepped in, noting how her pale skin had an ashen tinge, her eyes bright but brows drawn, and her mouth tight with fear.

"Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?" she said without preamble. 

"Yes, he's been here."

"Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here." 

"I don't make promises I'm uncertain of keeping," Sherlock said, and waved vaguely at the sitting room, "Sit down and tell me what the problem is."

She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the window. "Mr. Holmes," she said, clasping and unclasping her hands as she spoke, "I will speak frankly to you in the hopes that you will speak frankly in return. There is complete confidence between my husband and I on all matters save politics. On that, he tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was an unfortunate occurrence in our house last night. I know that a paper has disappeared, but because the matter is political my husband refuses to take me into his confidence. But now it is essential that I understand thoroughly what's going on. You are the only other person who knows the true facts. So please, Mr. Holmes, tell me exactly what has happened and what it will lead to. What was this paper which was stolen?"

Sherlock shook his head, "I'm sorry, I can't tell you." She groaned and sank her face in her hands. "If your husband thinks fit to keep you in the dark about this, it isn't for me to tell what he has withheld. What was divulged to me was under the pledge of professional privacy; not only is it unfair for you to ask me to break that, it's also quite illegal. I'm afraid you'll simply have to ask your husband."

"I **have** asked him. I came to you as a last resort. Alright then, Mr. Holmes, but I would appreciate it if you would answer one point."

"And that is?"

"Is my husband's political career likely to suffer through this incident?"

"Well, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very unfortunate effect."

She drew in her breath sharply. "One more question, Mr. Holmes. Something my husband said leads me to believe that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of this document."

"If he said so, I certainly can't deny it."

"What kind of consequences?"

"There again you ask me to break with professional privacy."

The Lady blew out a frustrated sigh when her mobile chirped. She looked at it, then suddenly went pale and abruptly rose. "Then I will take up no more of your time. Once again I beg you not to say anything of my visit." She glanced back from the door then she was gone.

"Well now," said Sherlock, when the rapid footsteps had ended in the slam of the front door. "What do you suppose that was all about? What did she really want?"

"It was pretty curious, how she insisted that it was best for her husband that she should know everything. What did she mean by that?"

"Yes."

"I also noticed how she manoeuvred to have the light at her back."

"She didn't want us to recognise her."

"Small chance of that, though, right?"

Sherlock shook his head, tapping his chin with his tented fingers, "No wonder that you don't, I don't think you ever saw her, and I only caught a glimpse of her. But, even though she's put on a few stone, changed her hair and eye colour and had some cosmetic surgery done, I'm certain that was Irene Adler's maid."


	6. The Dancing Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's search for information about their late-night visitor turns up a new twist -- little animated gifs of dancing stick figures. What's up with _that?_

John spent the whole of the next morning searching for anything he could find about the woman who had been maidservant to Irene Adler. He glanced up now and then; usually his flatmate paced in tense ellipses, caught in that holding pattern that always happened when he didn't have quite enough data to work with. John had eventually managed to convince him to play with the rats to distract himself, and now Sherlock was teaching them to come to their names. John smiled and shook his head. 

"What did you say Irene Adler's Twitter name was? 'The Whip Hand', was it?"

Sherlock looked up from giving Anthony a blueberry treat, "Yes. Why?"

"Did you know it's still active?"

"What?"

"I think you'd better come see this." Sherlock climbed over the coroplast, still carrying the rat, and leaned over John's shoulder to peer at his laptop. "Look here. This is a Tumblr link, I'll open it in a new tab.. Look, see?"

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged, "It's an animated gif of a stick figure dancing the Macarena - so?" Then he noticed the time stamp on the Twitter entry. " _ **Oh!**_ "

"Yeah. What are the odds that that's what made Lady Trelawny Hope leg it out of here so fast last night?"

"John, you're brilliant!" Sherlock said, and kissed him. John melted under the double onslaught of kiss and praise. "Whatever made you think to look there?"

"Not sure," John admitted, blinking the stars out of his eyes, "What do you think that is?"

"No idea. Download it, though, it may be useful."

"Looks like there's more of them. I'll put them all in your folder, shall I?"

Sherlock pet the rat thoughtfully and frowned, "Don't you have a Twitter account?"

"I used to. I deleted it after it was deluged by idiots after... you know."

Another thoughtful frown, "Don't I have a Twitter account?"

"You did, you never used it though. But," John had another idea and started searching, "Yes, you're still subscribed to The Whip Hand. Since you've never used it, whoever is posting the Tumblr links won't realise it's active."

"Absolutely brilliant, John."

"Yes, well, it takes one to know one," John grinned shamelessly and Sherlock chuckled. "Hand me Steve, will you?" He tucked the rat under his jumper and stroked it. "Gifs are in your folder," he announced. 

Sherlock span over to his own laptop, eager anticipation lighting his face. "Finally! Something I can work on!" He fell silent as his fingers clattered over the keys and touch pad. Mostly silent. John peered around his laptop and smiled because Sherlock was humming softly, under his breath.

"Did you know Greg was subscribed to your Twitter feed?"

"Who?"

"Greg. Lestrade," John rolled his eyes, "He's subscribed to your Twitter."

"What would he do that for, I never used it."

John just smirked. "Hand me your mobile."

"It's in my pocket."

"Of course it is," John sighed and got up to fish around in Sherlock's dressing gown, "This is just an excuse to get me to feel you up, isn't it."

"It took you this long to figure that out? Really, John, I'm disappointed."

John gaped at him then broke into giggles, "Really? Are you being serious? You mean, all this time... Oh _god!_ " He giggled again and shook his head, "There. I've added Twitter and Tumblr apps to it." The mobile chimed and he nearly dropped it. "Hand over Anthony, will you?"

"Hm? Why?"

John traded the phone for the second rat. "Text from Molly," he said, and braced himself.

Sherlock read the text then abruptly leaped up with a loud whoop that send the rats scrambling into John's jumper, and twirled about, "YES!!! Haha, brilliant, sharp-eyed Molly!! They routed Lucas's body through Barts. She says the stab wound is covering up a bullet hole."

John reached for his jacket, "Off we go, then."


	7. Dead Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John and Sherlock inspect the murder victim, Steve and Anthony make a new friend... and reveal a hidden talent.

John shook his head as he examined the wound, poking tiny shreds of flesh with a probe, "You can see here, where the forceps were forced in. Someone was in a hurry to get the bullet out."

Sherlock nodded, "Then the murderer chose a Jambiya dagger from the victim's collection, one with a cross section matching the diameter of the bullet wound." 

"You're right - I don't see how any halfway competant forensics technician could have missed this."

"Neither do I," said a new voice. They looked up. "'Morning, John, Sherlock."

"Almost afternoon, Greg," John grinned, "This is your case, is it?"

"It is now," Lestrade agreed, "Lobbied for it when I heard Sherlock was interested. Took one hell of a fight but I got it. Came to have a look at the victim myself. What's a Jambiya dagger?"

"It's a curved dagger with a diamond-shaped cross section," Sherlock mumbled, still intently examining the corpse. 

"Sounds Arabic?"

"Turkish, Persian, countries of that area and era."

"About seven inches long?"

"Yes, about that long."

The detective inspector nodded, "You were right - as usual. A knife of that description was missing from the victim's collection. So what's it doing covering up for a bullet wound?"

John chewed his lip for a few minutes then touched Lestrade's elbow and said quietly, "Here's the thing, Detective Inspector -- We think your case ties in with a case we received privately. The client's invoked Privacy and specifically requested not to involve the police."

Lestrade stared up at the ceiling in exasperated understanding, "So you can't tell me where's the connection."

"Sorry, mate."

Lestrade nodded, looking resigned. Then he brightened, "So, I guess it's a good thing I was about to contact you two anyways."

"Really?"

"Not really, but it seems the best way out of the tangle, at the moment."

Sherlock glanced up, "I'll need access to his mobile or computer. Preferably both."

"I can probably arrange that," Lestrade nodded, "Why?"

"Like I said, we think this case is connected to our case," John said apologetically, "We can't tell you what we're looking for but if you can get us a look, we'd be much obliged. Sherlock! Sherlock, watch Steve, he's about to start nibbling." Sherlock glanced down and tucked the rat back into his coat.

"Is that a rat? Oh what a beauty!" Lestrade's face split into a delighted grin, "I had one of those when I was a boy!"

"We're fostering a pair of them," John smiled, "Sherlock's training them up. That one's Steve. I think he's got Anthony in there some.. there he is." The rat appeared at Sherlock's collar and crawled out onto his shoulder. 

"Hi, Anthony! I'm Greg." Sherlock obligingly held out his arm and the rat skittered down then hopped across into the detective inspector's hands. 

"Here," Sherlock handed him a bit of carrot, "Treat him. I'm training them to come when called."

"Oh they're going to be lovely. I had mine doing agility courses. I had a great big Rube Goldberg type of layout set up in my bedroom," Lestrade grinned, "Used to terrorise my Mum with mine, I used to hold my arm up like this and say 'Rat attack! Go, my minion!' and he'd run down and hop across onto her shoulder and make her scream. Great fun." He scritched the rat a few more times then gave him back, grinning as it dove into Sherlock's coat and peeked out of the collar, "Awwwww, look at that smile."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Lestrade, really, you sound like Molly cooing over a new kitten."

"Says the man with a pocketful of rat treats," Lestrade said easily, "If we're done here, I'll get on back to NSY and see about getting you your evidence. So how'd you get into rats?" He listened to Sherlock's tale of lodging with rat rescuers as they left the building and walked outside. As they crossed the grounds, he noticed something. "Now that's interesting."

"Yeah, they did that back when we left the flat," John said, "Just froze like that, didn't so much as twitch a whisker. They started moving again when we got into the cab."

"Really." Lestrade stared at them a moment longer then looked around, "So they're not in the habit of it, then? They're not skittish, they don't do it often?"

"No, mind you we haven't had them very long. Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head, "I had them in Molly's car back from the shelter and all yesterday and this morning. The rats at the rescue in America didn't freeze like this often, either. John's right though, Anthony and Steve have only frozen up like this this morning when we left the flat, and just now."

Lestrade was still scanning around, "That's what they do when they sense a predator near by."

Sherlock and John glanced at each other and John's left hand flexed semi-consciously. "Like a hawk or similar?" John said. 

Lestrade nodded, "Or similar." 

John glanced around. Then something caught his eye and he froze as suddenly as the rats, "I see it. Suggest we vacate, lads."

They separated and hurried off in different directions. When John glanced back, the silhouetted figure was gone.


	8. Clever Rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade arrives with a bit of evidence that leads Sherlock to an important breakthrough.

It was a bright and sunny morning, though it was forecast to cloud over. John filled the rats' food dish and watched them for a while. "Hey, Sherlock?" he called over and looked up at his partner, then shrugged. Sherlock was still briskly poring over the dancing figurines, humming under his breath. He had the gifs separated into their component layers in an art program, scrutinising them and making notes. He only looked up when his mobile chimed. 

"Text from Mycroft," he announced, "Says he had a chat with the Foreign Secretary about his wife. Says she was going by the name of Elsie Patrick at the time they met."

John frowned and opened his laptop, "But her name is Helen?"

Sherlock nodded, "Apparently the Secretary says that Miss Patrick had some 'disagreeable associations' in her past that she wished to be quit of and he has never pressed her about it. But a little while ago, she received an email from somewhere in America - he couldn't tell where as she deleted it almost immediately. She's been distraught ever since."

"Irene settled in America when she married Morris James, Moriarty's brother," John nodded, "And here she is, Elsie Patrick. Doesn't look like she settled in the same area."

Sherlock continued reading off his mobile phone, "Mycroft says part of the terms of Miss Patrick's marriage to Trelawny Hope was witness protection."

"So she married him for safety," John nodded, "Hence the change in identity."

"And why she was so concerned about his position being affected."

"He loses his position, she loses her protection," John agreed, "So, who does she need protection _from?_ "

Sherlock looked aggrieved at him, "'From whom does she need protection', John."

John grinned impudently, "That's what I just said." He laughed when Sherlock smiled and went back to his work, and John got up to make another pot of tea. 

Half an hour later, the bell rang and the stair shook with a heavy tread. Sherlock didn't look up as John passed to get the door but he did reach out to brush his arm. So when the door opened, Detective Inspector Lestrade saw a smiling Dr. Watson with marshmallows still floating in his eyes, and Sherlock Holmes busy at his computer, humming contentedly under his breath. "Who broke Sherlock?" he teased.

"Morning, Greg," John said. His warning glance made the Detective Inspector reconsider that that might not have been the best way to phrase that. Then his expression cleared and he looked fondly back at his busy partner, "Yes, it's amazing what some vitamin D and an SAD lamp can do."

"Seriously? That's it?"

"More or less," John hedged, "And a good case, of course. Speaking of which...?"

"Lucas's mobile," Lestrade handed over the phone in a plastic bag. John wordlessly passed it to Sherlock, along with a pair of gloves. 

Without looking up, Sherlock had the phone open and unlocked and was sorting through its apps. "Haha! - Jackpot!"

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at John, "Something important?"

John nodded, "Something that makes it definitely connected to our case."

"So what happened the other day at Barts, was that connected to your case as well?"

"Not sure," John admitted, "Might be something else. We know Moriarty's nutter is still loose."

"Think that might have been him?"

"I don't know for sure but I think it might have been," John said, "We saw Colonel Moran during the Adair case, but the man's devilish at disguises."

"Makes it a bit tougher," Lestrade nodded, "Christ, John, that can't be easy for you, knowing an assassin is after you, disguised as anyone."

John shrugged and said simply, "I've been to Afghanistan."

"GOT IT!!!!" Sherlock shot up and span about then caught John up in a mad rush and kissed him. "I've got it, John, I've cracked the code!" He span back into his chair and beckoned him over, "It's a cipher! Look, the flag signifies the end of a word. 'E' is the most frequently-appearing letter in English, so once I had that identified..." 

John listened as he explained, and pretended not to notice Lestrade sneaking around to peer at the figures on the laptop screen and Sherlock's scrawled correspondences. The detective inspector nodded to himself, filing the information away for 'unofficial' reference. Sherlock and the doctor had helped him with his enquiries more than enough times; he was willing to do what he could to help them with theirs. Then he snuck back around to go look in on the rats. "Does he do that a lot?" he teased when John came back to join him. 

John giggled and scratched his head, blushing, "Only since he got back. I can't say I'm objecting."

"I never thought I'd live to see the day," Lestrade chuckled. 

"Wellll, to be honest," John snuck a glance back at his partner, "I'm not sure he's really registered that you're here." Lestrade laughed. "Seriously. When he's that focused, he won't even notice if I'm leaving the flat."

Lestrade chuckled again and shook his head, though he could well believe it. "Look at that little fellow," he said, peering at Anthony, "What's he done there?"

"Shoved a bunch of bedding under their nest box, it looks like. Looks like he's moved all the food up behind it."

"What's he doing with those blocks? Looks like he's building a dyke or a levee or something? Around the water bottle?"

"Well I'll be damned." Lestrade Looked at him and John burst into giggles, "I'm sorry, I've been living with Sherlock for too long."

"That's a punishment in itself."

"Oh, ouch. Touche." 

They laughed and Lestrade grinned, "Well I've got something I bet will snap him out of it. Hey, Sherlock! - How'd you like to come 'round and have a look at the crime scene?"

"..... hm?"

"Crime scene!"

Sherlock looked up and looked puzzled for a moment, gazing at Lestrade, "When did you get here?" Lestrade and John both broke apart laughing, puzzling him even further, "What?"

"Never mind," Lestrade laughed, shaking his head, "Come 'round and take a look at where this Lucas fellow was murdered. There's something fishy about it and I'd like your observations." Without another word, Sherlock span up out of his chair and was reaching for his coat.


	9. You Dirty Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade takes Sherlock and John to look at the scene of the murder of Eduardo Lucas, where Sherlock finds something important.

"As you know," Lestrade was saying, "After a crime of this sort, we're very careful to keep things in their position. Nothing has been moved, officer in charge here day and night, et cetera et cetera. Forensics has been over the room already but when I took the case over, I wanted a look myself. This morning, TDC Driscoe pointed out this carpet. As you see, it isn't fastened down, only just laid there. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great deal of blood must have soaked through, one would think."

"Obviously," Sherlock said.

"Well, TDC Driscoe looked underneath it and there is no stain on the white woodwork to correspond." Lestrade took the corner of the carpet in his hand and turned it over, showing the clean floor underneath. "Now, look at this." As he spoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there, sure enough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white facing of the old-fashioned floor. 

"So the carpet has been turned around," Sherlock nodded.

"But by who? And why? And best of all, _when?_ "

The consulting detective and the detective inspector stared significantly at each other, a current of energy running strongly between them. 

"Has that forensics technician in the passage been in charge of the place all the time?"

"Yes, he has." Lestrade's voice held a peculiar emphasis.

Sherlock's smile was thin and formal but John knew him well enough to feel the excited anticipation fairly vibrating through him, "Question him carefully. Don't do it before us; we'll wait here. Take him into the back room, you'll be more likely to get a confession out of him alone. Ask him how he dared to admit people and leave them alone in this room. Don't ask him if he has done it, take it for granted. Tell him you KNOW someone has been here. Press him. Tell him that a full confession is his only way out of this."

"If he knows, I'll have it out of him," Lestrade smiled grimly and darted into the hall. A few moments later, his bullying voice sounded from the back room.

Abruptly, Sherlock darted forward, "Quick, John, help me!" He tore the carpet from the floor and in an instant was down on his hands and knees clawing at each of the squares of wood beneath it. 

"What are we looking for?" One turned sideways as John dug his nails into the edge of it. "Never mind, found it!" It hinged back like the lid of a box, revealing a small dark cavity underneath. 

Sherlock plunged his hand into it and drew it out with a bitter snarl of anger and disappointment. He reached in again, fishing around the empty cavity with a look of intense frustration. They started at the sound of Lestrade's heavy footsteps. "Quick, put it back again!" The wooden lid was replaced, and the carpet had only just been drawn straight when Lestrade's voice was heard in the passage. He found Sherlock leaning languidly against the mantelpiece, resigned and patient, endeavouring to conceal his irrepressible yawns, with John standing beside him, arms folded across his chest, wearing his usual expression of befuddled innocence.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Holmes, I can see that you're bored to death with the whole thing. Well, he's confessed, all right. Come in here, MacPherson. Let these gentlemen hear of your most inexcusable conduct."

"I meant no harm, sir," the technician said, "The lady came to the door last evening, mistook the house, she said. And then we got talking. It's lonesome, when you're on duty here all day."

Sherlock didn't even blink. "Well, what happened then?"

"When she saw that mark on the carpet, she passed right out on the floor, sir! I ran to the back and got some water and by the time I had brought it back, she was gone! Ashamed of herself, I'd say."

"How about moving the carpet?"

"Well, sir, it was a bit rumpled when I came back. You see, she fell on it and it lies on a polished floor with nothing to keep it in place. I straightened it out afterwards."

"No doubt you thought that your breach of duty could never be discovered," Lestrade said with dignity, "And yet a mere glance at that carpet was enough to convince me that someone had been admitted to the room." John had gotten very good at keeping a straight face, while Sherlock had been blessed with an abundance of natural talent. "It's lucky for you that nothing is missing, or you would find yourself in very hot water indeed. I'm sorry to have called you down over such a petty business, Mr. Holmes, but I thought the point of the second stain not corresponding with the first would interest you."

"Certainly, it was most interesting. Has this woman only been here once, constable?"

"Yes, sir, only once."

"Who was she?"

"Don't know the name, sir. Was answering an advertisement about website design and came to the wrong number. Very pleasant lady, sir. Bit chunky, though, if you like the type."

"What time was it?"

"It was just growing dusk at the time."

"Very good," said Sherlock, then looked at his friend, "John, I think that we have more important work elsewhere."

Lestrade nodded and trailed behind as the luckless forensics technician opened the door to let them out. Then Sherlock turned on the step and held up something in his hand. The constable stared intently, his stricken face ashen. Sherlock put his finger on his lips, tucked his mobile into his breast pocket, and burst out laughing as they turned down the street. "Excellent!" he said. "Come on, John! I fancy a chippy for supper, how about you?"

"You've solved it?" 

"Hardly," Sherlock replied. He hailed a cab and waited until they were well underway before continuing. "There are some points which are as dark as ever, but it's just gotten even trickier and now Lestrade knows it too."

"Yes, that was a tissue of lies."

"Obviously. Really, people aren't even trying anymore. He knows he's in trouble and he's trying to redirect our attention."

"Why did you show him your mobile?" John wanted to know, "Why did he react like that?" 

Instead of answering, Sherlock took out his phone. John stared at the animated gif of the stick figure, dancing what appeared to be the Macarena.


	10. Rat Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock winds up the Trelawny Hope case and learns more information about the animated gifs.

"So the forensics bloke is in on it," John said around a mouthful of chips. He pretended not to notice as Sherlock nicked one -- getting Sherlock to eat anything while he was working a case was next to impossible, but Sherlock also had a mischievious urge to steal food from John's plate, presumably because he found John's yelps of protest amusing. 

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed, "I first suspected when we examined the body. As you yourself said, even Anderson wouldn't have overlooked that bullet wound, so either the technician was even more hopeless than Anderson, which is statistically improbable, or the oversight was deliberate. Lestrade brought us to the crime scene to confirm what he already suspected, that the technician had tampered with it."

John looked around at the rat cage, Not Noticing as another chip disappeared, "So why try to throw suspicion onto Lady Trelawney Hope?"

"Not suspicion; attention," Sherlock said, "I believe he was trying to indicate that she is in danger and in need of protection."

John nodded then glanced up, "Going to tell me what... Hey, that's mine! Get your own if you want chips that badly!"

"You want it back?" Sherlock chuckled, drawing it into his mouth. 

John studied him for a moment. "Yes," he said, and leaned across the table. After long seconds, he sat back with a self-satisfied chuckle, chewing the half-a-chip he'd rescued. 

Sherlock swallowed the other half, giving John a fond smile, "Got your energy back?" He stood up, pulling on his coat.

"Ready when you are."

Sherlock tied his scarf and pulled his gloves on, flashing John a grin, "Good. Let's go get that letter."

* * * *

"Mr. Holmes!" Lady Trelawney Hope gasped, on seeing her visitors, "What on earth are you doing here? I explicitly asked you to keep my visit to you a secret."

"I'm afraid I had no alternative," Sherlock said, "I have been commissioned to recover this paper, after all. And so I must ask you to be kind enough to turn it over to me."

Her face went blank, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock stepped forward. "I know of your visit to Eduardo Lucas, of your giving him this document, of your return to the room last night, and of the manner in which you took the letter from the hiding-place under the carpet." She stared at him with an ashen face and gulped twice before she could speak. He drew his mobile from his pocket and showed her the dancing animated gif. "I have carried this because I thought it might be useful," he said, "The policeman recognised it." Her head dropped back in the chair and she looked away. "You have the letter," Sherlock said softly, "My duty ends when I have returned the lost letter to your husband. It's in your best interest to be frank with me. I have no desire to bring further trouble to you... Kate Winslow."

Her head snapped up and she stared at him. "...How did you know?"

"I recognised you," he said simply, "You worked for Irene Adler."

She looked away. "That ended when Irene married Myles Abernathy and got involved in his 'business,'" she said bitterly, "She insisted it was the only way, now she'd run out of protection, but she was going in a direction I just couldn't follow."

"So you tried to leave it behind.. and instead, it's followed you."

Lady Trelawny Hope nodded sadly. "Those stick figures... They're a cipher used by Abernathy and his associates to send messages to each other."

Sherlock nodded, "Myles Abernathy was one alias of Morris James. His brother, Arthur, was better known as James Moriarty."

Her head shot up and she stared at him, then collapsed in on herself in despair. "The people hunting me answer to one of Myles's major domos, some army mercenary fellow, Darren or Marron or something like that. Eduardo Lucas was one of his liaisons. Freddy Macpherson was one of his footmen, planted into New Scotland Yard to report on some inspector fellow. But Freddy wanted out too and we agreed to help each other as best we could." She sighed and looked up pleadingly, "Eduardo agreed to leave me alone if I turned government secrets over to them. I tried to choose something not very damaging but because my husband doesn't confide in me, I chose poorly, as you know."

"Lucas made the proposition without his employer's approval," Sherlock said, "And Moran took exception to that."

Lady Trelawny Hope nodded sadly. She got up and went to her desk, opened a drawer and withdrew a long blue envelope. "When I learned Eduardo had been killed, Freddy helped me to retrieve the letter and we had intended to find another one to replace it. And now it's too late." She set the envelope in front of Sherlock. A long silence followed. "I understand Irene is gone," she said finally.

"She was shot. She died on the operating table," Sherlock answered softly.

"Did she suffer?"

"She was unconscious very quickly."

Lady Trelawny Hope blew out a sigh, "It's a far kinder death than anyone else was willing to give her."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"She was my best friend, you know," Lady Trelawny Hope wiped her eyes, "Until she fell in with Moriarty. After that, I just.. didn't know her anymore. You were the only one left who had any mercy for her."

"I know." 

Silence stretched out, then Lady Trelawny Hope wiped her eyes again and pulled herself back to the matter at hand, "Well, Mr. Holmes.. What now? What will you do about this letter?"

"Does your husband drink?" 

They both looked around at Dr. Watson, baffled. "Yes," said Lady Trelawny Hope, "We both do. Why?"

"You had a late night when the letter went missing, yes? How much did you drink? Enough to get drunk?" Sherlock frowned at him then his eyes were drawn to the way John's fingertips were tapping on his knee. 

"Yes," said the Lady, clearly puzzled, "Yes, my husband was quite inebriated when we came home. Is this important?"

Suddenly Sherlock sucked in his breath, his mouth a round O of comprehension. He whirled on Lady Trelawny Hope, "Where is your safe? Your husband, he must have one, doesn't he? Where is it?" 

Wordless, she led them to the safe. Sherlock studied the keys for a few moments. Then he positioned himself beside it, glanced at John with a little grin, and keyed the combination.

_1 2 3 4_

The safe swung open - uneventfully. John and Sherlock grinned at each other then Sherlock tucked the envelope in amongst the other papers and closed the safe again. "Just in time," John murmured, watching out the window.

"Mr. Holmes!" the Foreign Secretary cried as he entered the room, "To what do I owe the pleasure? Have you solved the mystery?"

"I believe I have," Sherlock answered smoothly.

"Excellent! Then you have the letter! Where is it?" 

Sherlock managed to look convincingly abashed, "I beg your pardon, Lord Trelawny Hope, but it's my belief that the letter never actually left this place."

" _What?!_ "

"I was visiting your lady wife to confirm a few of my suspicions regarding the state of your, er, sobriety, on the night of the disappearance," Sherlock said apologetically, "She confirmed to me that you had imbibed rather considerably during your evening."

The Foreign Secretary looked red with embarrassment, "What of it? What does that have to do with the letter?"

"Only that the excessive consumption of alcohol can play tricks upon the mind," Sherlock explained, "It opens paranoia and anxiety while at the same time, impairing memory. You see, Lord Trelawny Hope, it's my belief that, while you were inebriated, you became excessively worried over the security of the letter. Concerned over the portability of the strong box, I believe that you transferred the letter to your safe, then upon waking in the fog of a hangover, forgot that you had done so."

The Foreign Secretary was silent for long seconds. He opened and shut his mouth several times, looking like he wished to protest the hypothesis. Then he turned and wordlessly went to the safe. A few moments later, he turned back, the envelope in his hand. "I.. I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes. I feel dreadfully silly. I'm terribly sorry to have wasted your time with my foolishness."

"Your distress was quite understandable," Sherlock said urbanely, "Come, John, let's not trespass further on his Lordship's time."

Lady Trelawny Hope caught his eye as they turned to leave, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes." He nodded with a faint smile. 

* * * * 

"It was absolutely brilliant." They were almost home and Sherlock was _still_ gushing about it. "An ingenius solution, John, absolutely amazing. Whatever made you think of it?"

"You've really never been that drunk before, have you," John chuckled as he unlocked the flat.

"Never."

"You've mainlined coke and heroin and yet you've never gotten so drunk you've forgotten the night before."

"Certainly not."

John just shook his head, giggling as he shucked off his jacket and went into the kitchen to make tea, "Well that's why you didn't think of it." A shuffle made him look up to see Sherlock setting up the coroplast play pen and opening the rat cage. "What I want to know is, how did you know the forensics bloke was one of Moran's spies?"

"I didn't, until he started with the lies about Lady Trelawny Hope," Sherlock replied, tickling the rats. He rubbed Steve's head, making him hop about with delight. "Why would he lie about her? Why would he tamper with the evidence? Why would he attempt to obliterate the bullet wound? It was the only explanation that made sense."

"And the dagger?"

"I texted Lestrade. It's probably changed hands a few times by now. I told him to look for it on eBay."

John shook his head, this time in admiration, and handed Sherlock his mug, "You just never fail to astound me, Sherlock Holmes." He leaned over to snog his partner.


End file.
